Then, a flicker.
Not of light, but of sound.
It wasn't the return of sensation in his limbs.
It wasn't sight.
But it was something.
He stilled his mind and reached for it, not physically, for he still couldn't move, but with all the discipline he had honed for years.
Sound.
Distant.
Muffled.
Like voices speaking underwater.
At first, it was only a hum, indistinct, shapeless.
'Focus. Tune everything else out.'
He concentrated harder.
A soft, wavering tone began to sharpen.
A few scattered words clawed their way into meaning.
And then, slowly, as if the world itself had remembered he existed, the sounds came clear.
"…master hasn't woken up since…"
A voice, female.
Light, uncertain, laced with worry.
"…I've tried for some time to wake him up, but failed…"
There was a pause, followed by the rustle of fabric.
A faint sigh.
"…his body temperature isn't good either…"
Dark listened intently, every word more precious than gold.
It was like being dragged back from the abyss, one syllable at a time.
'Are there talking about me?'
That voice.
It didn't belong to an assassin.
No venom, no edge, no hatred.
Only concern.
'Who are they? Where am I?'
He was beginning to piece the puzzle together, shard by shard.
He still couldn't move. Still couldn't open his eyes.
But now he had information, and that was enough to give him a foothold.
A female caretaker, possibly a maid.
The tone was reverent, "master", she'd said.
Not "target."
Not "traitor."
There was no trace of suspicion in her voice, no awareness of who or what he truly was.
'They think I'm someone else.'
That realization sent a ripple through the still pool of his thoughts.
Wherever he was… it wasn't a hospital run by the assassins.
It wasn't a prison cell.
And if the woman thought he was her master, then either someone had hidden him here… or something much stranger had happened.
He strained to listen further, hoping for more voices, more clues.
Footsteps padded softly across what sounded like a stone or marble floor.
The rustle of cloth followed.
A chair creaked.
"And Sir Valen," the voice continued, now quieter, almost to herself. "He said he would return soon… maybe he'll know what to do."
'Valen? Another servant? A protector? A noble, perhaps?'
The names meant nothing to Dark, but they could soon.
But something about this place didn't fit any mold he knew.
And the more pieces he gathered, the more he felt it deep in his instincts...
He wasn't in his world anymore.
He didn't yet know how, or why, but the very fabric of his reality had shifted.
The air itself felt… cleaner.
The voices carried no malice.
There was no cold steel being drawn in the dark, no whisper of death on the wind.
He was a ghost in a foreign shell, and these people were treating him like someone important.
That could be dangerous.
Or it could be the only advantage he had.
'First the ears… next the eyes.'
Dark summoned his will again, forcing calm into every crevice of his mind.
He had regained one sense.
The others would follow.
But even as he tried again to open his eyes, they refused him.
Still… he did not despair.